To The Bone

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A feverish tormenting dream of fire, spreading through her, forced her awake. She was in bed, knees drawn up to her chest, hands clenched tightly. The apartment was dark and still. The overhead fan whispered, cooling the air, but the sheets were soaked with sweat. Her blurred eyes could just make out the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock: 3:18 a.m.

The fire stayed behind in the dream, but the pain was real. She twisted with nausea, moaning.

"Ray?" she whispered. Her throat was parched, her voice hoarse. "Is anyone here?"

Nothing stirred in the darkened rooms. Her mind was foggy from drugs, but she remembered that the boyfriend who was supposed to stay with her had gone out for cigarettes. Someone else had stopped by after that-someone kind, feeding her soup and more painkillers, that had eased her into sleep.

But that was hours ago. The pain had been only in her breasts then, but now it was everywhere-fierce cramping and burning that worsened in quick stages, like the tightening of a vise.

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